


(i'm happy just to) dance with you

by trustingno1



Series: Season/Series 3 Alternate and Missing Scenes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This," John says, grinning a little helplessly, "is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."</p><p>Sherlock pulls the curtains closed, pulls them closed so John won't have to ask, allows a corner of his mouth to curl up in genuine amusement. "Yet here you are."</p><p>(Dance lessons at 221B).</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i'm happy just to) dance with you

**Author's Note:**

> Refers to both John/Mary and at least one-sided John/Sherlock; vague spoilers for 3x02 The Sign of Three. 
> 
> Everything I know about [a basic box step](http://www.ballroomdancers.com/dances/info.asp?sid=107), I learned from google.

"This," John says, grinning a little helplessly, "is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

Sherlock pulls the curtains closed, pulls them closed so John won't have to ask, allows a corner of his mouth to curl up in genuine amusement. "Yet here you are."

There's so much he shares with Mary (everything from John's fondest smiles to his attention and - and _love_ , and he still can't quite -), so much he's _ceded_ to Mary (there's an empty bedroom upstairs that he could use - convert - but he won't, just keeps that door closed), that he treasures jokes like this, jokes that are just _theirs_ , almost _fiercely_ , in a way he can't (won't) examine too closely.

John's grin turns into a laugh, and he cocks his head, in acquiescence.

"So," he says, shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it on the sofa. "Where do we start?"

"If you could just -" Sherlock gestures vaguely at the table, and John snorts.

"You could've done this yourself," he pretends to grumble, as he pushes the table up against the wall, dragging the chairs to the side.

"Probably," Sherlock agrees, absently, crouching down to mark out a square on the living room floor.

"Is that - medical tape?" John asks, and he's not trying to mask the laugh in his voice.

"I'm - improvising."

"Uh huh," John says - indulgent, in a way he's letting himself be, these days (consciously or not, Sherlock still hasn't decided). "So," he says again, as Sherlock straightens up. "How do we ..."

"Take your shoes off, first," Sherlock says, and John laughs, toeing them off (and he looks more at home in his socked feet; looks less like a visitor).

Sherlock turns to the coffee table, and cues up the right song on his phone. He turns back to John, and deftly unbuttons his jacket, slipping it off his shoulders, and John glances away. He lies it over the arm of the sofa and clears his throat (still has these moments of feeling so, hideously off-kilter around John).

"We'll start with the basic box step," he says, moving towards John. Confident. Decisive.

(He can do this).

He holds out his hand, expectantly, and John takes it, and John's touched him in a myriad ways, as a physician, a partner in crime, a friend; in concern, in desperation, in absent-minded affection, in _anger_ , but the intimacy of holding John's hand in what was their living room is almost overwhelming.

He places his hand high on John's back, fingers landing one by one on the soft cotton of his shirt.

"Place your hand on my shoulder," he murmurs, and John swallows, as he slowly does. Sherlock can feel his palm through his shirt. "I'll lead," he says, and John makes a face at him, _Don't you always?_ , and Sherlock smiles, slightly. "Just until you've mastered the basics," he promises, because John will have to know how to lead when he dances with _Mary_

(best not to think about that, right now).

"It's in three-four time," Sherlock says, nodding at the phone dock, "Can you hear it? _One_ two three, _one_ two three," he counts, and John tilts his head as he listens.

"Yeah, right," he agrees, with a sharp nod.

"Now," Sherlock says, "there are only three steps," it's an oversimplification, a gross one, but John's face lights up in relief. "Forward, side, together; back, side, together," he says. He taps John's left ankle with his toes. "Start with your left foot. Ready?" and John gives him that _look_ , like he's being _ridiculous_ , so, "Forward," he murmurs, as John steps forward and he steps back, "side, together. Back-" John steps back with the wrong foot, tripping them up a little, and drops his hands, momentarily.

"Bloody hell," he says, and Sherlock shakes his head slightly.

"Doesn't matter," he says, dismissively. "Try again."

John takes his hand again, resting his other one on Sherlock's shoulder. "This could be a long night," he pretends to warn, grin a little self-conscious, but Sherlock doesn't return it.

"I don't mind," he says, honestly, and John drops his gaze, grin fading.

"Right," he says, "Again?"

"Start with your left foot again," Sherlock says, and he does, "Forward, side, together," and it's dreadful technique, him stepping backwards first, but it's easier on John, and when John goes to step back, Sherlock reminds him, "Right foot," this time, and John gets it, glancing up, almost in wonder.

"Hey," he says, as they dance, "I did it."

"Congratulations," Sherlock murmurs, dryly, as they shakily navigate another box step.

"I - _shit_ ," John mutters, stepping back with his left foot again, and Sherlock doesn't hesitate.

"Keep going," he says, "Stop thinking about it so much."

"Oh, like you're one to talk," John says, without any heat, and his breath puffs against Sherlock's throat in a strangled laugh, and they're far closer than they need to be, for a _waltz_ , but he can't bring himself to step away. "You solve that case with the florist?" John asks.

"Obviously," Sherlock scoffs, and John smiles up at him, and their next few steps are almost smooth.

"This is nice," John says, and Sherlock blinks at him, and John glances away. "The - the music," he clarifies, softly.

"Ah," Sherlock says.

There's a heavy silence. "One of yours?" John asks, and Sherlock hums his agreement, like it's unimportant, but it's _John_ and John knows what Sherlock composing _means_ \-- "Sherlock-" he says, step faltering, and Sherlock shakes his head, just once.

"You're doing well," he says, quietly, and he leaves it intentionally ambiguous, at the dance, with his new life, because he's only so brave and he's only just got John _back_ and --

"You're a good teacher," John says, unevenly, and - _ah_. He did understand. (John Watson, after all, is no fool).

"I still have to teach you turns and dips," Sherlock says, mildly, pulling John into a turn without warning, and John laughs, his hand sliding down Sherlock's shoulder until he's gripping his bicep.

"Bit advanced," John says, as Sherlock guides him back onto the square. "Maybe leave that for next time," and he blinks, stupidly (so _stupidly_ ) at John, for a moment.

_Next time?_

"Of course," he says, like he's unfazed. "Dips, though," he continues, "dips are easy."

John raises an almost challenging eyebrow at him. "Are you seriously going to-" and Sherlock lets go of his hand to wrap his arm around John's shoulder, the hand on his back sliding down to grip John's waist, and dips him. John wraps his free arm around Sherlock, reflexively, "- dip me?" he finishes, after a beat.

Sherlock holds him there for a long moment. "It would appear so," he murmurs, straightening up, and John laughs, smiling up at him again, in a way Sherlock's still not sure he deserves. He doesn't let go of John immediately, and John's hand is clutching the back of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock clears his throat, dropping his arms, and John steps away, scratching idly at the back of his neck as he glances down at the medical-tape square.

"Again?" John finally asks, and Sherlock wordlessly opens his arms. John steps into him again, and waits for Sherlock's nod. "You love this, don't you?" John asks, and Sherlock's not sure if he knows his thumb's gently stroking Sherlock's collarbone through his shirt. "Dancing," he adds, as Sherlock squeezes his hand, just a little.

He gazes at John for a few beats, who licks his lips in concentration, forehead furrowing, as he glances down at their feet. He can see John's mouth moving, so slightly, as he counts the beats, and he squeezes Sherlock's hand back triumphantly as they settle back into a rhythm. It feels like something's lodged in Sherlock's throat, so he swallows a few times (must check that, later) before answering.

"I do," he replies, honestly.


End file.
